


and it takes all of me to just stay out of the water

by wastethenight



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Other, but i hope it makes u feel some type of way!, lyrics in description n title from deadwater by wet, readers gender could b anything as usual, shorter than usual, this was me rlly wanting to play w the dynamics of temptation after breakup n stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:43:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8300366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastethenight/pseuds/wastethenight
Summary: "we might last this out longer, but the task just gets harder, and my face turned to red from drinking all that dead water"you miss yoosung and you shouldn't, but you do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello ! this is shorter and was written a lot faster than normal, its kind of a vent piece and kind of just me being very intrigued by the dynamics of a mutual-ish break up, and just break ups and unrequited love in general and heartbreak. i hope its alright ! i hope you like it or it makes u feel a kind of way :~) i would love yr feedback (just dont yell @ me please)
> 
> you can follow me on tumblr at burnbliind.tumblr.com where i post # exclusive content (lmao)  
> my tip jar is my ko-fi which is: ko-fi.com/burnbliind
> 
> and special thanks to grimmheaper on tumblr, the sweetest angel, for proof reading this for me that way i dont get messy w my work
> 
> title n lyrics in description from deadwater by wet which i highly recommend u listen to while reading or just listen to:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JV7ufuW0VFY

You keep stirring your spoon in your coffee cup like something will come out of it, like the hidden truth you’ve been begging to hear for days will arise through the murkiness of the liquid or the creamy designs will spell something out for you. You don’t know why you keep drinking so much caffeine, besides to combat your lack of sleep which isn’t really working anyways, you still feel foggy and heavy and unsure. You’re up before the sun but you don’t feel up, all you’ve been is down because maybe it was your fault, or it was his, or no, no – it was both of yours. You know that. But you miss him and maybe if something had been different, if you could climb through the clockwork and turn the hands of time just a little and push the minutes and the hours, things would have panned out differently, in a brighter light even.

Groaning, you let yourself rest your head in your arms on the small table here in your kitchen, you can’t even keep yourself upright anymore and it hurts like maybe something’s wrong with your body, maybe your back though you know the problem is with your heart and your mind. But what would have happened if you had just a bit more spine? What if the two of you met in a big, blown out city with rosy cheeks and lights in your eyes and less people buzzing around the two of you? Would you end up in an apartment with a view nuzzling into each other every night and hiding your secrets and promises in the chests of one another? Or if you two had met later in life, perhaps if the two of you were a few years older things would have been okay, you wonder if things would have been okay if you knew each other better or maybe the two of you knew each other too well and you just couldn’t tell.

You imagine if you had met in the lights of Hollywood with big accomplishments and the need to mold to someone else who is more human than corporate and you imagine if you had met in school when you were younger and were sweethearts through and through. You imagine if you had met in the city of angels with high-heeled shoes and far too fancy attire and ran around in the night together, dancing and kissing and loving one another and the endless possibilities of choices and chances is going to make you sicker than it already has if you don’t stop thinking about past and previous lives with this unattainable boy. If you keep going at this rate you might never sleep again which might not be as bad as it seems because you can only hope that with lack of sleep comes a point where your brain can’t function anymore and then you can’t think which means you can’t think about _him_. You wouldn’t be able to even get his name right let alone dream about his voice and his touch and his touch on someone else and everything that went wrong and how even though you know it could never work again you want everything back.

You push your cup away from you, shaking your head and peeling yourself off the cool tabletop as you let your legs lead you to your closet, you need to leave the house. Again. You can’t stand to be in this kitchen anymore, the birds are chirping and you can almost see him standing by the window with his hair in the smallest ponytail, smiling at you when he realizes you’ve turned the corner and telling you he has breakfast on the stove and it’ll just be a few more minutes.

The sun is rising and your bones ache as you swipe through your closet mindlessly and you’re so taken aback by the smallest peak of dark green your breath catches in your throat, you freeze and it feels like if you move you’ll break parts of your body off like they’ve been covered in concrete. Your hands are shaky as you reach out for it and you almost stop yourself so many times, you pull away like it’ll bite you or vice versa, as if you’d destroy it upon impact even though you know it’d sooner destroy you and probably will. You stop yourself because something tells you that you don’t deserve to touch it but you ignore it, deciding to be selfish as you curl your fingers around the softest cotton you’ve ever felt in your life and you can’t help your eyes from fluttering shut.

Your hands pull it out of the closet, fingers running over the stitching and up and down the zipper and soaking in the feeling of it in your palms and in between your digits, if someone had told you you’d practically be crying over a simple hooded sweater a few months ago you’d swear they were jerking you around. But now you can feel tears well up in your eyes, you know this is pathetic and silly, and you have to be careful not to cry into the fabric. You want to clutch it to your chest, maybe put it on and close your eyes and hold yourself and pretend that it’s him again and that he’s telling you, _angel, it’s going to be alright!_ You want to, you want to so badly, you want everything to be good again and you want to wake up to his beautiful bed hair and run your hands through it and you want his soft, sweet kisses back. You want him lacing his fingers in between yours where they fit just right which had always been such a big deal because normally it hurt to hold hands like that with anyone else but it didn’t with him.

You want everything back. You want the couples costumes and shopping for each other during the holidays and the decorating of the houses and attempts at making cute, themed treats that would have only turned out disastrous if it hadn’t been for Yoosung’s cooking skills. You want the innocent games of footsie and the laughing so hard until you cry and crying so hard until you laugh, you want the train rides and long walks and you want him to give you his sweater when you’re cold and curl up with it when you’re sad and he isn’t here. You want the betters and the worses and you want the fights and the post-fight makeups and you want his hands on you and you want your hands on him and you want to just talk. You miss talking, miss the way he’d talk and listen to you and the way he’d speak about you like you were the prettiest thing he’d ever layed eyes on and how his voice calmed you down no matter what – except for the hours and days full of the conversation neither of you ever wanted to have full of questioning feelings and quiet and loud statements and crying and hugging and then making rash decisions trying to benefit both of you even though it was just making you fall apart.

You want to clutch the sweater to your chest, to pretend its him, but you don’t, you know you shouldn’t, you know it’s better this way even though, god, it doesn’t feel better and you have such a hard time believing it ever will. The end was so strange, it wasn’t mean but it hurt and it was supposed to be mutual but at least you ended up lying through your teeth because you just wanted him to be happy and you are trying so hard to be happy for him because things needed work (you guess there was too much?) and it just couldn’t happen anymore. Part of it was lying through your teeth, a smaller part of it was telling yourself that you were lying through your teeth because you knew that this wouldn’t work out and that this would be the best thing to do but you hate it now and you hated it then and everything about the situation was just awful. It was awful and it is awful and the two of you couldn’t happen anymore and can’t happen now and maybe, just maybe, this is the better that people promise you it will get. Maybe this is it, even though all these thoughts are just getting stronger and louder and you feel like you’re drowning and you almost aren’t mad about it because you want to drown in him and it takes all your strength not to gulp down until you can’t breathe anymore.

And you know, oh boy do you know, that you should stop looking for happiness in someone else and looking for it where you’ve lost it but it’s only been a few weeks and there probably isn’t an excuse besides the fact that you just can’t handle this. You aren’t incomplete or anything, you can live without this beautiful boy who doesn’t love you anymore like that and you can be happy - just not right now, and you don’t know when and really that’s okay, it’s just everything doesn’t feel okay. You close your eyes again, giving the fabric a nice squeeze and giving yourself one more moment before smoothing it over and folding it up and putting it in an empty box, desperately trying not to think about how that was what he wore on your first date, how that was the sweater he left here because he knew it was your favourite.

Just like you try not to think about how gorgeous he would say you were while you look at yourself in the mirror and try to forget what it felt like to wear his shirts as you change out of yours and try to forget the time the two of you had to break into your own house after you locked you both out as you turn all the notches on your door before you leave. You try to think about the colours in the sky and not the colours in his eyes as you hear gravel crunch beneath your feet and pull your jacket closer to you on the chilly morning, you try to soak in the wind and the rising sunshine instead of the guilt and the “what-ifs” because you know it couldn’t work but you want it to. Life feels cruel and unusual and you know you can’t always get what you want, but you're trembling in the breeze and so close to tears as you turn the corner, you’re trying to wipe at your face as your cheeks burn against the salty liquid and cold spring air.

You try to ignore everything, the houses in and around your suburb that you always thought you’d end up in with Yoosung and the cute little businesses you thought you might run one day downtown when you two weren’t just kids anymore. You try to ignore the blame on yourself, you try to stop wishing you were stronger and more clever and more loving and more everything, try to stop picking yourself apart at your seams and trying to find out what went wrong in yourself because it’s bigger than you even if you can’t accept it because everything just feels like it’s your fault now. You ignore the people around you, but not in the rude sense, just enough to stop picturing who he might end up with next, what they’ll look like, how their love might last and how he’ll love them and they’ll love him and flowers will grow in chest cavities, gardens of beautiful roses that may never die. You ignore people so you don’t see in them what he saw – or didn’t see – in you and what he’ll see in the next person, and you ignore people so you can stop thinking you see his face in the crowd. You do it so you can stop thinking that the stranger you brushed shoulders with was Yoosung with your head tucked down and your hand over your mouth a few minutes after in some random restaurant bathroom trying to get yourself together.

When you think you see him you want to reach out and pray to god that your hands land on him and your fingertips tingle as your whole hand warms up against his skin, but you know it won’t be him and you know that even if it was, you can’t. You wind your way down the twisted streets of your hometown (same as his) (you really need to stop that) in attempt to find something to do with yourself, if not just walk until you collapse from exhaustion. Even avoiding all the little things that remind you of him, you still can’t stop the aching just below your sternum that twirls itself around your spine and sits heavily in your stomach, there’s a constant flow of doubts and sadness and empty wishes of _Yoosung_ in your head. You run a hand through your hair, looking around and trying not to tighten your grip and rip a few chunks out in frustration, your head hurts so bad and you make your way over to a small coffee shop because maybe the world will give you _one thing_ today.

Small, gentle wind chimes jingle as you push the door open, curled in on yourself while you stand in line waiting and as you order you tell yourself that you’ll actually drink this cup and you may or may not be lying but at least it will give you something to focus on. You can think about the warmth of cup instead of the warmth of his presence and maybe it’ll be hot enough that when you’re throwing it down your throat you won’t be able to think. The girl who takes your order is sweet, you’ve only seen her around just a bit over a handful of times and only had a few conversations with her but you know you have a mutual friend, you aren’t close by any means but you know that she knows about Yoosung. You vaguely remember a text from said mutual friend saying that she sends her well wishes and love to you and you wish she’d send more because you’re going to need heaps and heaps to get through this. Maybe you’ll just come get coffee here every day from now on to see this kind girl and bankrupt yourself on coffee and breakfast delicacies; a solid plan.

You’re thumbing through your cash and digging through your wallet for coins when the moment you realize God, or whatever other-worldly force is controlling things in the universe _, literally fucking hates_ _you_ because you can hear someone walking up next to you and your nose gets a whiff of a very slight vanilla smell and you know it so well you want to throw up in your hands right there. You try not to but you cease all movements like it’s the sweater all over again but this isn’t just your ex’s sweater silently hiding in your closet, this is a thousand times worse and you can feel it in every fiber of your being because this is your _ex_ , skin, bones and all. Right here, right now. And you want to die.

Things escalate from “the worst” to “actually the worst” when the girl comes up to you, saying your name loud and clear with a smile and letting you know your order is done and you don’t remember how to breathe or speak or exist and you wish you could turn to dust, maybe melt right into the wall, hide away forever. Now he knows it’s you and you just shove a fistful of far too many dollar bills at this poor girl and tell her to keep the change as you pick up your things with unsteady hands and you feel like you’re going to pass out and almost hope you do because at least then you wouldn’t have to live in this horrible moment where you feel like your ribcage is shaking and falling apart piece by piece within you, rattling louder than thunder as your heart falls deeper and deeper.

And of course, you can’t escape this unscathed, no, Yoosung has to stop you politely as if he can’t believe it’s you, like there’s suddenly clones of you living in town, you think bitterly. His voice is quiet and drips just lighter with the loving tone than it used to and you are too close to having to physically use your fingers to push your mouth up into a smile, pushing down bile every time you open your mouth to keep up with the small talk. He asks you how you are, you lie, he asks you how things have been, you lie again and really you just want to tell him the truth. You want to throw up, tell the truth and grab him softly and hold him just maybe fix things and honestly spill out your entire mind to him, box up your soul and wrap it so beautiful for him and present it even but you can’t, you can’t, you cannot. You can’t go and dig up this love from it’s grave, your soul is not his, it is yours but it is not yours to give, so instead you depart with knocking knees, an upset stomach, and then you find yourself in a bathroom.

You slide down the door, setting your coffee on the floor and using the sleeves of your sweater to muffle your sobs as your shoulders shake and your breath puffs out frantically and unevenly. Your face burns red as the situation screams loud in your mind and resonates through your bones and all the cavities inside you. And you drown in your regret and sadness and him just like you wanted to but also how you desperately didn’t want to in a grimy, six foot by six foot, black and white tiled public restroom.


End file.
